


Let Go

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-27
Updated: 2006-06-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:00:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8712994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam and Dean have a hard time separating. Takes place around the time Sam leaves for college.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Let Go  
  
By Raina  
  
Archive: Nutters, inc.  
Paring: Could be gen, but squint and it's unrequited Wincest  
Rating: Some mild cursing, I'd say PG.  
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke, the WB, etc. None of it belongs to me, which should be obvious given that neither of the boys is currently chained up in our bedroom.  
Feedback: Always appreciated.  
Summary: Sam and Dean have a hard time separating. Takes place around the time Sam leaves for college.  
Warning: I hate John.  
Spoilers: Not really.  
Notes: I just had this stuck in my head. It's one way how I think the separation could've gone. It's also my first finished Supernatural fic, and it's not even explicit Wincest. Shame on me ;-)  
  
Thank yous: [ ](http://duchess-of-hell.livejournal.com/profile)[**duchess_of_hell**](http://duchess-of-hell.livejournal.com/) for relentless pimping, [ ](http://lea-ndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**lea_ndra**](http://lea-ndra.livejournal.com/) for relentless talking and pressing me to read, and [ ](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/)**cathybites** for the beta.  
  
*-*  
  
Sam slams the door behind him, almost blind with anger, hurt, and a burning, scorching resentment. His entire body shakes with the adrenaline of fighting. He's been arguing with his Dad for years, but he knows today they both crossed lines they won't be able to erase any time soon. He said some things he never meant to say, and he's sorry even now, but he knows he won't ever be able to take them back, because, God knows, they're all true. Years of swallowing his objections, his anger, and tonight it all burst out of him, like a bullet, and he knows he's hurt his father deeply, but his own wounds are still bright enough to gloss over the sadness of the inevitability of the confrontation.   
  
_"If you go now, Sammy, don't bother coming back."  
  
"Don't worry. I won't."_  
  
It's final. The words have been spoken. He will go.   
  
He grabs his duffle bags from the closet and starts throwing in clothes, shoes, books, not noticing nor caring what gets rumpled or damaged.   
  
The door opens but he doesn't turn, keeps packing.  
  
"You can't go like this."   
  
Sam doesn't turn. "Watch me."  
  
"So you got accepted to Stanford. How come I didn't know that before tonight?"  
  
The uncushioned hurt in the words stops Sam short, reminds him that he's not the only one affected by this.   
He sighs mentally and turns. "Look, Dean, you knew I was sending out applications to several colleges. I only got the acceptance letter yesterday. Post had trouble delivering it, we moved so often." He picks up the envelope and shows Dean the several redirections the letter went through.  
  
Dean takes the envelope, looks at it for a moment with an expression usually reserved for the hideously evil. He tosses the envelope aside. "So what now, you just leave, and screw the hunting? Screw Dad?" _Screw me?_ remains unspoken, but Sam hears it nevertheless.  
  
"Why should I stay? For what?" he asks, voice raw with emotional exhaustion. He _hates_ having to go through this again, this time with Dean. Only with Dean he can say things he can't ever say to Dad. "All my life I've been scared of my own shadow. Always on the road, always working, no friends, no fun, always hunting and training and getting hurt and watching you and Dad get hurt. If I stay, nothing will ever change. I'll hunt, I'll train, until I end up dead at 30, with nothing to look back on but fear, blood, and ugliness." He looks at Dean, a barely hidden plea in his eyes for his brother to _understand_. Quietly, he continues, "I'm no coward, Dean, but I'm not ready for this."  
  
Dean looks at him, holds his eyes for a moment, and Sam sees a gleam of... something in there. Yes, Dean understands him. Only too well. For a moment, he sees the struggle; it shows clearly on Dean's face. Let him go or try to stop him. Sam's not sure whether he _could_ go if Dean asked him to stay. He feels terrible to leave Dean with Dad as it is.  
  
Finally, the smooth mask Dean hides behind slides back into place and Dean nods. "Well, if you want to lead a boring, normal life, have a nine to five job and die of a heart attack at 40, don't let me stop you."  
  
The words are harsh but Sam sees through them. It's Dean's way of saying, simultaneously, "Selfish fucker" and "Go. I'll miss you." And god, he'll miss Dean as well. There wasn't a moment in his life when Dean didn't look out for him. Granted, it wasn't always what Sam wanted at the time but it's unimaginable _not_ having Dean there when he looks over his shoulder.   
"Come with me." It breaks out of him low and desperate, hopeful in spite of himself, his last chance to have the best of two worlds.   
  
Sighing heavily, Dean runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes as if to ward off a world-weariness he's much too young for. "And do what?"  
  
"We could rent a small apartment, take odd jobs to make money. I could go to Stanford and you could finish High School and get a job, a steady job, and we could maybe still go hunting sometimes, but not, you know, make a life of it." It pours out of Sam in one single breath; he barely leaves room between the words to give Dean time to interrupt his beautiful fiction.   
  
Smiling sadly, Dean puts his hands in his jeans pockets. "That sounds really peachy, Sammy, as far as it goes. But we both know it'd never happen. This," he shrugs, indicating the run-down apartment they're staying at, "is all I'm good for. It's all I've got."  
  
"That's not true. You're so much more than this," Sam says quietly, his voice hoarse with the effort of holding back his disappointment, hurt at the rejection. Once more, Dean sides with Dad. One more time Dad wins.   
  
Sighing, Dean looks down at the floor, then up again at him. "No, Sammy. That's you. I'm stuck here." He reaches into his pocket and takes out a couple of 20-dollar bills, puts them on the nightstand. "That's all I've got. I'll send you some more. Just let me know where you're staying."  
  
Sam swallows. It's as close to a blessing as he'll get. "I can take care of myself, you know."  
  
Dean almost smiles, still not looking at Sam. "Shut the fuck up and take the money, Sammy, or I'll kick your ass through the wall."  
  
Sam smiles, feeling a wave of sadness wash over him, so strong that for a moment, he doesn't remember why he's leaving. "You wish." He bites his lips to keep the tears in. God damn it, he hates goodbyes.  
  
Fortunately, so does Dean. He gives Sam a small grin. "Don't get cocky, you little bastard. And call sometime."  
  
"I will," Sam says, willing Dean to go so he can give up pretending that this doesn't hurt like hell.   
  
Dean turns, reaches for the door handle. Sam can see the tension in his shoulders as he hesitates. He gets up from the bed at the same time that Dean turns and they don't hug so much as crash into each other, hold on tightly, clutching at each other's clothes. It's the most intense physical contact they've allowed themselves in years outside of training.   
"You take care of yourself, kid, or I swear I'll come and skin you," Dean whispers.  
  
Sam has trouble breathing, Dean is hugging him so hard. " _You_ take care, or I'll trap your spirit forever in a Best of Country and Western tape."  
  
Dean chuckles. "You never mastered that spell."  
As abruptly as he's initiated the hug, Dean steps away, avoids Sam's eyes.   
"Stay in touch," he murmurs, then leaves the room without another word, evading Sam's hand trying to touch his shoulder.   
  
Sam sits down on the bed and allows himself the first, the only tears of his young adulthood. He knows he won't see Dean again before he leaves. He knows Dean most likely won't come visit him. He knows he won't visit Dean. It's the last he'll see of his brother in a long time.   
  
*-*  
  
What Sam doesn't know is that after Sam calls and lets Dean know where he's staying, Dean gets into the car and drives straight through to Stanford, only to stand in front of Sam's dorm and hide when he comes out. He watches Sam go to class, to the library, for a beer with his dormmates. He watches Sam laugh with the new friends he makes quickly. Sam wears no gun, but when Dean breaks into Sam's locker in the sports facility locker room on campus, he finds the blessed curved blade Sam likes to use in his book bag. Careless, but not entirely stupid, Dean thinks.  
  
The wards on his front door are correctly placed and so powerful they make Dean's hair stand on edge when he breaks into Sam's dorm room. He adds a few spells to Sam's bed and hides about a pound of salt under some loose floorboards. He double-checks the closet, the bathroom, the space under Sam's bed, the ceiling, and is surprised and impressed at the subtle bathroom graffiti of protective symbols and the carvings on the underside of Sam's bed. It stings as much as it makes him proud that his little brother doesn't need him to look over his shoulder anymore.  
  
Still, Dean can't leave. He spends days shadowing Sam, watching him from afar, never summoning the courage to go and speak with him, have his reasons for being here challenged, have Sam repeat his offer for Dean to join him. And Dean's afraid he might say yes. He might not be the sharpest pencil in the box, but he knows very well what that'd mean. He'd flunk his second try at High School and spend the rest of his days working construction while watching his brilliant, dedicated kid brother walk through college to any degree he chooses. He'd watch Sam get married, pop out a few kids, and finally he'd end up living over their garage, an appendix to Sam's family, attached yet not a useful part. And every moment of watching his beautiful kid brother's wonderful life would kill him a bit more until he'd be dead with envy and hatred and a love he'll choke on one of these days anyway. Better to die at 30 doing a job he's good at, and fuck normalcy, and fuck Dad, and fuck Sam and his ambition and his god-fucking-damned indomitable courage.  
  
Still, he haunts Stanford with an almost sick persistence over the next few months. He never calls Sam, nor goes to talk to him. Seeing him from afar is tough enough; speaking to him and leaving would be impossible. He knows that what he's doing is unhealthy. Every time he sees Sam it feels like ripping off scabs from a wound that's just begun to heal. But he can't stop.   
  
Dad is even more quiet than he was before, barely saying ten words a day to Dean that don't concern the job. He doesn't care where Dean goes when he disappears for a few days, as long as he's back for the next job.   
  
One time, though, Dad asks. And Dean tells the truth. And Dad decides to come with him, and when Dean tries to talk him out of it, his voice takes on his flintiest command tone. And Dean obeys, as he always does.   
  
They park near the library where Sam spends a lot of his free time (Dean's memorised the schedule he saw lying around in Sam's room). They're just walking back from the coffee cart when Sam comes out of the building, his arm around a very pretty blonde girl. He smiles at her, and Dean's stomach curls at that smile, that happy, careless, young-and-in-love smile.   
  
And _now_ he understands why Sam left. And more than ever, more than even in his most desperate dreams, he wants to be a part of what makes Sam happy, he wants to _have_ a part of Sam's happiness, wants a part of the peace he sees in his brother's eyes.  
  
He feels Dad moving beside him, feels the heavy presence of his father taking a step towards his son, and Dean knows that his brother's peace will shatter if they so much as touch it, his happiness will vanish intangibly like mist with the wind if they come close to it.   
  
Automatically, he grabs his Dad's arm and pulls him into the shadow of a building before Sam can see him.   
  
He turns to John. "You know what, I've changed my mind. Let's just go."  
  
John frowns. "What are you talking about? We've come a long way, we might as well go over and say hello."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "No. We've got to leave him alone, Dad. You'll just ask him to come back." _Or I'll ask him to come back,_ Dean adds silently. And that's the last thing he wants.   
  
"I'll at least go over and say hello," John says, and Dean sees the genuine longing in his eyes.   
  
"Dad, no." Dean puts a hand on John's shoulder. "Leave him alone." And this time the flinty tone is in Dean's voice. He won't let their father confuse Sam, won't let him mess with Sam's happiness. Sam deserves whatever bit of joy he can suck up before the inevitable happens and he's back right here where Dean is now, between a rock, a hard place, and the iron will of their father.   
  
But surprisingly, this time, Dean wins. John sighs, and nods. "You're probably right. He'll come to his senses eventually."  
  
Dean nods, tries not to show how relieved he is. "Yeah. Let's go."  
  
John gets into the Impala and Dean allows himself one last look at Sam, standing in the sunlight with his perfect girlfriend. "Fuck you," he whispers. "I'll be damned if that isn't a much hotter chick than you deserve, Sammy."  
  
He sighs. Enough. He's seen enough. He's ready now. He can let go.   
  
He gets into the car, puts in the Iron Maiden tape he knows his father hates, and drives away without looking back.   
 


End file.
